


Where Nightmares Thrive

by Emachinescat



Category: Hardy Boys - Franklin W. Dixon
Genre: Gen, Horror, Inspired by House - F. Peretti/T.Dekker, Spiritual, Supernatural Elements, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-19
Updated: 2008-07-19
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 19,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something evil is at work. No one can stop it. No one can understand it. No one can survive it. And yet it is there, taking over minds and destroying lives. It is in a place where nightmares thrive, and the Hardys are walking right into it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own, for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Enjoy. :)

_Where nightmares thrive,_  
Where your fears come alive  
Where ghosts of the past  
And things yet come to pass

 _Monsters come out_  
They scream and shout  
As your mind takes control  
You can't see inside of your soul

 _A place where dreams become reality_  
And your worst fears you can clearly see  
Right in front of your eyes  
A horrific surprise

 _Come, all you who are willing_  
Come, if you hear me calling  
Come to your doom  
For I assure you…it is coming soon

* * *

_**There is a place, deep within the shadows of the human mind, a place that is so desolate and forsaken, we often forget it is there. But it is, and sometimes, in the dead of night, it comes alive, filling us with dread as we try to breathe, try to sleep, try to…survive. But then, as the sunlight shines in through the window, our eyes flutter open and we realize that it wasn't real…nightmares don't really exist…they are just dreams, just a state of mind.** _

_**Or, that is what we have always been told.** _

_**We all have fears, things we dread. It's a part of life. But during the day, we put them away into a corner of our mind, and let them out only at night. But does it really matter that we have nightmares? They are just in our heads…** _

_**Or, that is what we have always been told.** _

_**When you're younger, you're afraid of the boogie-man under your bed, or the monster in your closet. But as you get older, you imagine horrible, scary, terrifying things, and as you sleep, your mind plays them in your dreams…over and over…over and over…again and again…until daylight breaks the black trance. But we shouldn't really be afraid. Because nightmares are a mental state. They have nothing to do with the physical world.** _

_**Or, that is what we have always been told.** _

_**We fear things happening to loved ones, we fear death, we fear a great number of things. But, if we push them out of our mind and don't think about them, they won't bother us.** _

_**Or, that is what we have always been told.** _

_**But there is a place, somewhere deep within the rocky terrain of the mountains in North Carolina, a small, seemingly harmless abode that sits atop a high peak…a place that hasn't been visited in the last one hundred years. It is an old inn…and the last people who slept there wound up dead before daylight came. A perpetual darkness seems to hover over the small cabin, willing all light and comfort away from its walls. It is a place that most people avoid, yet it is the setting in which our story takes place.** _

_**A place of torment…a place of unyielding torture…a place of horrific dreams…terrifying visions…a place to which no one has ever found an escape…a place where nightmares thrive.** _


	2. Waiting

He stood alone, waiting. He took a step, and the rotting wooden floorboards creaked unsteadily beneath his ebony boots. A rat skittered across the room. He took a breath. He could smell the tell-tale whiffs of rat droppings and mildew, but this time, there was another scent mixed in. Strangers. An evil smile split his face. He had been waiting…

The sounds he longed to hear had been missing from his place of abode for far too long. He had dearly missed the screams of agony, the moans of torment, and the cries of desperation, but now…they were coming. He could feel it. And we was ready. He was always ready. Every single time.

When their hopeless whimpers could be heard throughout the trees, then he would truly be happy…for agony was his specialty.

Joe Hardy cursed under his breath as he tried once more to start the mud-splattered, dark green trail blazer. When the engine merely whined in reply, he shut off the vehicle and slammed his fist against the steering wheel, causing the horn to honk loudly. He muttered a few more choice words, and heard the eighteen-year-old boy next to him chuckle and comment, "Better watch your language, Little Brother. Wouldn't want Aunt Gertrude hearing you cuss like that."

Joe, who was seventeen years old, scowled at his brother. "Frank, this isn't funny!"

"I know the situation isn't funny," Frank said seriously. "I just think that your response to the situation is amusing."

"Okay, fine. So you can sit here and laugh while I try to find a way out of this mess."

"Joe, it's no big deal!" Frank insisted. "You're getting way overworked about this."

Joe turned and looked at Frank darkly. "Am I?"

"Yes. Look, so the car shut down. But hey, we're not that far from the road, and we've got our cell phones. We make one call to Dad, he sends someone out here, and we're home. Okay?"

Joe did not look convinced, but he calmed down. "It just seems like every time we try to have a little fun, something happens to spoil it," he complained.

Frank put on a façade of false horror. "No!" he said in false amazement. "You're not telling me that you no longer like to solve mysteries? That they aren't 'fun' anymore?"

"I never said that," Joe scoffed. "This doesn't have anything to do with a mystery. I just hate that we got this rental car, and it breaks down right as we get to the mountains. I mean, didn't Dad send us to North Carolina to get a break from it all?"

Frank and Joe Hardy were detectives that lived in the small town of Bayport. They had solved cases as minor as finding a missing cat, and as exhilarating as stopping international terrorists from blowing up a mall. However, they had been overworked lately, and their father, world famous PI, Fenton Hardy, had arranged for them to spend a quiet week in an isolated cabin in the North Carolina woods, where he used to camp when he was a kid. The boys had leapt at the opportunity, rented a rugged car, and had driven up to NC, where they were supposed to begin their vacation. Much to their dismay, however, the engine failed about halfway up the mountain.

Frank smiled grimly at his brother. "Right. Alright, here's the plan. We kind of walk around, try to find out where we are. I think I can explain pretty well where we are to Dad. We call him, and we have him get a hold of someone on the PD here to pick us up. We can drive up to the cabin tomorrow morning. What do you say?"

Joe nodded, shivering. The sun was starting to set over the mountains. "Fine, whatever."

"Scared?" Frank taunted him, smirking.

"Uh, no!"

"To tell you the truth," Frank said darkly. "This place does kind of give me the creeps."

The boys got out of the Blazer and began to walk in separate directions, being careful not to stray too far from their car. "Hey, look at this!" Joe exclaimed, looking at a weathered sign. _'Nitmarr Inn: Two miles up the mountain'_. "Here's a landmark. We can get someone to pick us up here."

"Great!" Frank said. He got out his cell phone and dialed the number. He put the device to his ear and listened, then frowned.

"What's up, dude?" Joe wanted to know.

"This is weird. I've got full signal here—which is kind of surprising for the mountains—but it's not calling. The phone's not ringing." He dialed again, then put it to his ear. "Wait, I  _do_ kind of hear something," he said slowly. "But it's not normal."

"What?" Joe asked.

"It's…it sounds like whispering. And nails on a chalkboard. It's ghostly."

Joe snatched the phone from his brother. "Whoa," he said, taking a step back from the phone, as if frightened it might explode. That is very weird."

"Well, it doesn't look like rescue's coming tonight," Frank said ruefully. "Joe, try to start the car again." Joe did what his brother ordered, but the car kept stalling.

"Crap," Frank said under his breath. "Alright, bro, here are our two options: one, we go down the mountain, the way we came, and try to find help on the highway down below, or, two, we go to the Nitmarr Inn, stay the night, and get help for in the morning."

"It's probably a good seven or eight miles down the mountain," Joe said slowly. "It's getting dark and cold out here. And even though we'd be walking uphill, the Nitmarr is only two miles away. I vote the inn."

Frank agreed, and the boys begin the slow ascent. "Wait a minute," Joe said after about ten minutes. "Something tells me that this isn't the smart thing to do. I've got a gut feeling. Maybe we should turn back." Frank gazed up at the canopy of trees that made the dark night seem even blacker.

"No way, Joe. You're just getting paranoid because you're tired. Dad told us there would be small inns and stores in different places in the mountains. This is just one of them."

Joe shrugged. The boys continued to climb.

Meanwhile, a figure stood on the porch of the Nitmarr Inn, anticipation building inside him. It was time…


	3. The House

The sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving the chilly forest even more dank, dark, and foreboding. A slight wind blew in from the south, and giant thunderheads could scarcely be seen through the canopy of trees and the blackness of the night. One could not pretend that they weren't there, however, for the constant growls of thunder and quick flashes of lightening were ever constant, and always growing.

Frank and Joe Hardy had first caught sight of the inn nearly fifteen minutes ago, as they stumbled and groped up the steep mountainside. As they neared the old house, the terrain became increasingly rocky and hard to manage, but they pressed on, and were soon standing on the rotting porch, watching as the shutters falling off of the windows fluttered in the breeze, and waiting hesitantly for someone to answer the doorbell that Joe's finger hovered over, having just pressed it.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he whispered to his brother, who was looking uneasy as well. "What if no one is here? What if it's been abandoned for a long time?"

Frank shook his head quickly. "No, we didn't just climb this mountain for nothing," he said in a forced calm voice, more to assure himself than his younger brother.

He leaned in to look in the peephole—a small, bullet-sized hole roughly drilled into the door— and nearly jumped back in fright when he saw another eye—this one, an unearthly shade of purple—staring back at him, holding horror and excitement alike.

"What is it?" Joe asked, adrenaline pumping with his voice.

Before Frank could answer, the door swung open and a tall, portly woman towered over them, stooping so as not to hit her head on the frame of the door. Her graying brown hair hung loosely over her massive shoulders, and her sharp purple eyes glared at them suspiciously. "What do you want?" she hissed, glancing around furtively.

She was nervous, Frank noticed. Her large, salami-shaped fingers kept groping at her ankle-length, faded skirt, clenching and unclenching. A few beads of sweat were trickling slowly down her chubby face, and her inhumanly gigantic feet kept shifting uncomfortably.

"Uh…" Joe couldn't take his eyes of the giant of a woman, half petrified and half intrigued.

"Speak, boy!" the woman demanded in harsh tones, then grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him inside. Frank was about to protest when the same was done to him. The woman slammed the door shut, bolting it in eight different places. "It's safer inside," she explained, then turned to the brothers expectantly.

But the boys were too intrigued with the interior of the inn to give the strange woman much notice. The floors were sinking in, and the walls were yellowing, with mold growing steadily on the ceiling. A large, moth-eaten couch sat along one wall, and in the center of the den was a small table that slanted greatly to the left, for its left leg was half gone. A humongous stone fireplace was the only touch of homeliness in the uncomfortably cramped living room, and even it was lacking greatly in elegance.

Beyond the sitting room, the boys could see three doors, two of which were propped wide open. One, it seemed, led to a kitchen that was no better off; it's table was dirty, the curtains holy and scarce, and Frank could have sworn he saw a rat scurry happily across the dingy wooden counter. The second door had a flight of stairs that led up in a spiral so steep and circular it made Joe a bit dizzy just looking at it. The third door was not only shut, but bolted in no more than ten places, with several pieces of decaying furniture propped against the handle. Joe figured it was another exit.

The woman snapped them out of their reverie by demanding sharply. "Speak! I don't have all night and I have preparations to make."

"Preparations for what?" Joe asked curiously. The woman glared at him threateningly and once again inquired what they were doing there.

Staring into her sharp, supernaturally violet eyes, Frank answered hesitantly, "Our car shut down about two miles from here. We saw the sign for your inn and thought…"

"I see. Thought you'd intrude on my privacy, eh?" the woman snapped, then shrugged. "S'alright, I suppose," she drawled, studying each boy in turn. "It's been a long time here with just Garret and Jared to keep me company."

"Who are Garret and Jared?" Joe questioned.

"My husband and brother. And I'm Beatrice. We've lived up in these mountains for decades."

"So, if you don't like people invading your privacy, why do run an inn?"

A flash of fear rippled across Beatrice's face, if only for a second. "Nobody comes here anymore. Folk's ain't into this kind of place anymore. I think it scares them to death." These last words she spoke with such urgency, such passion and reverence, the boys felt a tremor of terror cut through their bones.

Beatrice's fearful manner dropped abruptly and she asked lightly, "Anyone want some dinner?"

The brothers looked hesitantly at each other, not sure of how to respond. Although Joe's stomach was rumbling, and Frank felt a desolate emptiness, both felt that it would be unwise to eat in a home with such unkempt conditions.

"Tell you what," Frank said reasonably, "my brother and I aren't really that hungry right now, but we'll come down later, okay? What we really need is somewhere safe to stay the night."

Beatrice smiled forebodingly. "Then you're in the wrong inn," she muttered. "He'll be coming tonight, I know it," she whispered, the eerie smirk disappearing completely, only to be replaced with a terrified face that suggested she was viewing a gruesome vision. "He always comes when he senses them." She glanced out a halfway boarded-up window. "I sure hope Garret and Jared come back from town soon. I don't want'em tramping around in those woods too long after dark, 'specially with  _him_ around."

"Who?" Frank asked quickly. "And what are you so scared of?"

Beatrice ignored his question, and instead asked, "You say your car broke down, did you?"

Confused, Frank nodded.

"It broke down right at the sign for my inn, didn't it?"

Again, a nod.

"It's true then." She took one more terrified peek out the window, and then turned once more to the brothers.

"Alright, your rooms will be the last two at the top of the stairs. No need for a key; they don't lock."

Frank and Joe glanced at each other uneasily.

"Right," Joe said in what he hoped was a polite voice. "We're going to head on up and freshen up before dinner."

As they tromped up the stairs, Frank turned to his brother. "I don't like this," he admitted.

Despite their unusual predicament, Joe couldn't resist a mocking grin. "Told you." He then frowned. "Beatrice is just too weird. What was she talking about, making preparations for? And why are her husband and brother out this late? Who is  _he_? And what's she so terrified of?"

Frank shrugged. "Don't know."

" _Frank, are you there_?" The high-pitched, ghostly voice echoed through the upstairs hallway as the boys reached the upper-level landing. It was barely audible, but both boys heard it.

"Who's there?" Frank demanded, taking a step forward, trying to place the eerie, mocking voice.

" _Don't you know me?_ " the voice asked, sounding hurt. A flash of long, blonde hair disappeared into a room at the end of the hall. Frank's room.

He realized who this strange girl was and took off at a run, Joe a few yards behind him. What was she doing here?

A shrill, piercing scream sounded from inside the room. Frank rushed inside. The room was empty.

 _Creak…creak…creak…_ A soft, almost inaudible groaning noise could be heard from somewhere up above. Slowly, Frank lifted his eyes and saw his worst nightmare.

A flash of lightning illuminated the room for a short moment, and Frank was able to glimpse a figure that swayed gently back and forth…back and forth…to and fro in an endless pattern by her neck, which was twisted and cracked in a gruesome position, broken by the noose wrapped around it. Her blonde hair ruffled quietly in the breeze that seemed to have sprung up from nowhere, her blue lips curved in a mocking smile. Her eyes were frosty and unseeing, plagued with horror and pain. Her face was pure white, and cold, even to look at. The lightning ceased, and thunder rumbled precariously. Another flicker, and the body was illuminated.

Callie Shaw was dead.


	4. Apparitions

There was another flash of lightening as Frank stumbled backwards, horror written on his pale face. The body was illuminated once more, and he let out a moan of anguish. He couldn't look away, despite the pain, and even when the lightening went away and the room went dark again, the image of Callie haunted his mind.

He could see her hanging there, her face ashen and taut against her cheekbones, her beautiful blonde hair floating around her lifeless face, almost silver in the flash, her eyes cold and staring, but unknowing. She had been beautiful…but in a horrible, scary way. It hadn't happened. He knew it wasn't true.

It wasn't possible. Callie wasn't anywhere near them; she didn't know where they were. How could she possibly have found them. But the lightning struck again and he saw the vision again. All reason and logic was ran out of his mind as he saw her body once more, elucidated by the storm.

"Callie!" he screamed, grief overwhelming him. "No! She's…she's…"

There was a sound behind him, and Frank instantly tensed. "Frank…"

The voice was cracked and hollow, with a malice and hatred so intense it cut through his bones like an icy knife. He shivered. Spinning around, he saw it coming toward him, its red eyes gleaming evilly. It stood over him; it was at least seven feet tall. The thing—whatever it was—was black and terrible, like a nightmare come to life. "She deserved what she got, Frank," it said.

Frank backed away, terror in his eyes. "W-what? Who are you? And what? No, she never!" He threw a wild punch in the creature's direction, hoping to silence it for good. His aim was off. The thing snickered and took another step forward.

"Think about it, Frank. She expected you to spend more time with her than your only brother…she was mean to him…she got what she deserved."

"N-no! It's not true!" Frank gasped. "She didn't—and she's not—"

He took another futile shot with his fist. It missed.

"You can't take me down, Frank. You could never hurt me. You love me too much."

"What? Who—who are you?"

"Think about it. Who is the one person you can't bear to see hurt? I would have had you all to myself, if it hadn't been for Callie Shaw. But now, you will never blow me off again to see her."

Suddenly, Frank knew what this was. He was horrified to think it, but he knew. "Joe?"

Out of the shadow, his brother fell. He landed face-down on the floor, unconscious. Despite his anger and fear at the moment, Frank dropped to his knees and turned Joe over. His face was white and pale, his blue eyes tightly shut. His hair was plastered to his head with sweat. He looked ill.

"Joe? Joe, are you okay?"

There was a groan, and Joe Hardy's eyes flickered open. "Frank? What happened?" He saw the look of pure horror on his brother's face and demanded, "Are  _you_  okay?"

"I don't know. Joe, what just happened?"

"I don't know…I…I don't remember anything that happened since you left me on the stairs."

Frank's eyes widened at this news. "Really? Nothing?"

"No. It's as if there is a big blank in my memory."

Frank related what had happened, his voice cracking. Alarmed, Joe looked up and then back down, an odd look on his face. When Frank demanded to know what was wrong, Joe answered, "Frank, I don't know how to tell you this, but…there is no body."


	5. First Visitation

Frank looked up and gasped. There was no body. Joe had been right. Callie was gone. Shaking all over, he stood up and began pacing, almost hysterically. Joe sat on the floor where he had fallen, watching, worrying. He had never seen his brother lose control like this. Of course, nothing like this had ever happened before, either.

"Frank?"

"Something is definitly wrong with this place," Frank said, to no one in particular. "I know…I _know_ …I saw her. She was…" His voice cracked, but he cleared his throat and forced himself to continue. "She was…hanging…by her…and she…oh, Joe, it was horrible! And then that monster…it came…Joe, it was  _you_!"

Joe stared at his older brother with a look that clearly said 'You're crazy'. "Frank, I'm not a monster. I'm your brother."

"But, Joe, I told you…the  _thing_ that came for me. It told me…told me that I could never hurt it. I loved it too much. And it said that Callie got…got what she deserved. She was always 'making me blow you off for her' and 'she didn't like you'." He saw a look of mild surprise and guilt mingling on Joe's face and asked, "Joe? Do you really feel that way?"

Joe shook his head, smiling slightly, almost doubtfully. "No, of course not, Frank." He changed the subject abruptly. "Do you know what I think?"

"What?"

"We need to get out of here."

 

* * *

"I'm sorry, but you cannot get out of here."

 

"What?" Joe glared at Betty, defiance in his eyes. They had just relived their horrific experience to her, and the whole time, her face had remained emotionless. "We  _can_ leave, and we will! We told you what just happened. And right now, we don't even care  _how,_ we just need to get away!"

"What you saw was nothing," Betty said slowly, her violet eyes cast downward.

Frank looked at her suspiciously. "What do you mean, nothing?"

"Fates far worse than you can imagine will await you if you leave now. Stay the night, and if you survive, you can go home in the morning."

Joe looked at her, disbelieving. "What do you mean,  _if_ we survive?"

Betty did not answer, but glanced at the old grandfather clock propped against the living room wall. "It's nearin' midnight," she said darkly. Frank didn't know how she could have told, for the timepiece seemed to be broken; none of the hands—not even the second hand—were moving. "I sure hope Garret and Jared get home soon. I don't want them to get caught out there by… _him._ "

"Okay, that's it," Joe said, losing control. "I want to know who 'he' is."

"No, you don't." Betty was staring at the brothers with a look of pleading terror. "He doesn't like to be known. He likes to work in secret, to plot separately, so that when it is time…"

There was a banging on the door. Betty's face paled. "It's him."

Backing away from the door, a sickening shock flooding over his body, Joe asked, "Couldn't it just be your husband and brother?"

"No. They don't do that. Only  _he_ does."

Another bang. This time, Frank took a few steps back. "What should we do?"

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

"Nothing," Betty said. "Absolutely nothing.

 

* * *

He stood outside of the door, a grim smile forming on his mouth. He stopped pounding on the door. His job was done. For now. The woman knew he was here. Surely, she hadn't told them anything. They weren't supposed to know about him. That is, until they were on their knees, pleading for death.

 

 

* * *

The knocking stopped. "What was that about?" Frank asked, relieved that it was over. He didn't know what had come over him and his brother; normally, they didn't scare easy. But as soon as the first pounding noise reverberated through the inn, they had been irrationally petrified.

 

"Would you like some dinner?"

"What?"

But Betty had already made her way into the kitchen, beginning to prepare a meal. Joe turned to his brother. "Something is very, very wrong here. First the visions. Then this. There is someone out there. I don't know who—or what—it is, but I have a feeling we are in big trouble. And Betty is so strange—one minute, she's talking about 'him', whoever 'he' is, and the next she's offering us dinner and acting like nothing ever happened."

"I know."

There was a shuffling sound at the door. The boys glanced over to see a piece of paper slide under the door. Cautiously, they made their way to the exit and picked up the paper. Unfolding it, they saw two lines scrawled in nearly illegible print, the paper splattered with a red substance that looked too much like blood.

"Read it," Frank said.

Joe looked down, and in a low, hoarse voice, began to read, "'Where nightmares thrive. Where your fears come alive.' What is that supposed to mean?"

The boys were so engrossed by the slip of paper that they did not notice Betty staring silently at them from the kitchen doorway. After she had listened to Joe read the first two lines of the poem aloud, she slipped back into the kitchen, a frigid fear clutching her heart.

It was happening. Again.


	6. Meat Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice goes by Betty, by the way, in case there was any confusion.

"It's not much, but it'll have to do."

Frank and Joe looked down at the "meal" Betty had served them. It was some sort of meat cake, but it almost looked as if it were moving; and as the boys looked closer they were able to see that although the meat was not moving, something  _inside_ of it was. Joe leaned in for a closer look and jumped away from the table so fast that Frank gasped and yelped, "What's wrong?"

Seeing Betty looking at him curiously, almost as if she was afraid of him, Joe gave a tentative smile and said loudly, "Nothing at all. Everything's fine." When Betty had turned her back, however, he pointed to the food and mouthed, "Roaches."

Frank hesitantly dipped his head down toward the food and came up looking ill. Sure enough, there had been huge, black bugs crawling and burrowing through the tender, rotting meat. He pushed his plate away, and Joe did the same. Before they could say or do anything, they heard a door swing open and a few heavy sets of footsteps on the molding living room floor.

The brothers froze, expecting the worst. But Betty looked relieved as two men made their way into the kitchen, sniffing the air eagerly. The oldest one of the two, who had gray hair reaching down past his shoulders and beady black eyes, gave a cold smile that didn't reach his eyes. "What're ye cookin', Bet? Smells great."

Joe coughed, trying to cover up a snicker, and the younger of the two, a huge, muscular man with short-cropped black hair and sharp, purple eyes, glared at him, anger in his violet depths. Joe guessed he was Betty's brother.

"Who're the kids?" he wanted to know, as he sat down next to his sister, piling a huge portion of roach infested meat onto his cracked plate.

"This is Frank and Joe," Betty said. "Their car broke down. They have nowhere else to stay."

"Does  _he_ know they're here?" the gray-haired man—Betty's husband, Frank was sure—questioned, staring at the boys with an air of great dislike.

"Yes. He knocked."

"Kick them out."

"What—no, Garret! You know what he said! They have to stay."

"Kick them out and then tell him they left on their own. You know he won't ask no questions when he finds them out there, alone in the woods."

"Garret, there is no way I'm doin' that! He is a smart person. He'll know if we make'em leave. You know what he told us…"

Garret's face paled and he nodded reluctantly. "You boys stay." He reached down, and with bare hands, he began to shove heaps of the bug-ridden food into his mouth, the other man, Jared, doing the same.

"Eat," Jared said.

Both boys shook their heads. "We're…we're not hungry, thanks," Joe said quickly. At that moment, his stomach growled loudly.

Garret gave a bitter half-smile. "Looks to me like one of you is hungry. Go on, son, eat. My wife sure makes a good meat pie."

"No, really, I don't—" Joe stammered, glancing at Frank for help, who could do nothing but shrug his shoulders and offer a look of sympathy.

"Are you sayin' you don' like Bet's cooking?"

"No, it's nothing like that, I just saw the…"

"Saw what?"

"Nothing. It looks great, I just—"

Looking angrier than Joe had ever thought possible, even on this cold man, Garret spat, "Then eat!" He reached down on Joe's plate and grabbed a handful of the disgusting mush. Joe could see the bugs squirming around inside the meat and felt sick. The next thing he knew, the substance was being shoved into his mouth, and strong hands forced his mouth shut.

It was the most horrible thing he had ever tasted. He could taste the stench of rotting meat, the slimy, sickening tingle of something old and decaying. He felt something crunch in between his teeth, and knew without a doubt what he had just bit on. A cockroach.

Panicking, horrified, and revolted, Joe slammed an elbow into Garret's stomach and the man let go, gasping in pain. Throwing himself forward, the boy fell to the ground and retched all over the decaying floorboards.

After he was finished, he fell to the floor, gasping for breath, and felt a weakening disgust overtake him as he saw a large black bug scurrying across the floor, away from where he had just gotten sick. He was too weak to protest when he felt a large hand—Jared's, he was sure—lift him up off of the ground and shove him into the table. He heard Frank yelling something, but he was too ill to answer.

Jared drew back a fist, about to punch, when a cold, hard, skeletal voice sounded throughout the house.  _"This is my house,"_ it said dangerously.  _"You play by_ my  _rules."_ The voice faded away, and Jared dropped his fist.

When Joe sank to the floor, relieved, he snarled, "Don't count yourself lucky. Wait.  _He_ always has plans for his guests."

As he stalked away, further into the house with his sister and brother-in-law, Frank ran to Joe's side. "Joe, are you okay? I can't believe they did that to you; I tried to stop him. We'll get them back, little brother, I'll—"

He stopped short as he saw his brother staring into space, a vacant, horrified expression in his eyes. "Joe, don't be afraid of what that creep said to you. He was just trying to psyche you out."

But Garret's oath was not what had caused Joe's reaction. He was staring into a corner, where he could see the silhouette of someone he once knew and still loved, caught in a circle of flames. She was staring at him, pure hatred in her eyes. "You got what you deserved, Joe Hardy," she said, in a terrifyingly horrible voice. "You got what you deserved."

The girl was Iola Morton.


	7. Ghosts of the Past

"Iola."

"What?" Frank was beginning to be even more afraid for his brother. "Joe, I'm not Iola. This is Frank." Inside, he thought,  _'What did that meat pie do to you?'_

"No." His brother's voice was hollow, terrified. "Over there." He pointed a wavering finger toward the corner of the room. "She's there, Frank."

Frank turned his head, but saw nothing. Joe looked at him, pleading. "You don't see her, do you Frank? But she's there…She said I got what I deserved."

Frank thought for a minute. "Wait. The creature—whatever it was—that was supposed to be you, it said something about 'she deserved what she got', and now you hear…um, Iola…say that you got what you deserved. Do you see a pattern here?"

But Joe was in no condition to answer, he was sitting on the floor, whimpering, a tear running down his face. "She hates me, Frank," he groaned, clutching his head in shaking hands. "And I didn't get nearly what I deserved. I let her die." At these words, the girl in the corner let out an ear-splitting screech as she was instantly devoured by the flames that surrounded her.

Joe screamed and jumped up, shoving his brother out of the way. "Iola—no!" But she was gone. Hysterical, Joe fell to the ground. "Frank…I'm afraid."

Frank nodded. "I'm a bit scared myself. We need to get out of here. These people are crazy." He started to walk toward the exit, but Joe grabbed his wrist.

"No! We can't. Listen, someone is out there, Frank." His eyes were wide and beseeching, but at least he had seemed to regain a bit of his composure since his ordeal. "Even though Betty and her family may be a little nuts, there's still someone—a killer, by the sound of it—out there, waiting for us. You heard him outside. Right now, we're safest in here with these creeps."

Frank nodded. His eyes roamed to the door that had been barred shut. "I wonder where that goes."

Before Joe could supply an answer, there was a shuffling above them, a whooshing sound, and a loud clunk as something fell down the chimney and landed in the fireplace.

"Someone was on the roof," Joe whispered, and ran to see what they had dropped. Frank followed.

It was a large stone. It had two lines painted on it, in a dark red color. This time, Frank read them. "'Where ghosts of the past, and things yet come to pass.'" He thought for a moment, then said, "Joe, give me the paper. Joe did as he was told, and Frank held the two inscriptions side-by-side and began to read once more. "'Where nightmares thrive, where your fears come alive. Where ghosts of the past, and things yet come to pass.' Joe, if you notice, all these rhyme. And together, they make a full stanza. Joe, I think this is a part of a poem."

A heartless, eerie voice rang through the house. "Very good. And here is another riddle for you. 'When all the lines are said, I will come for you. When all the poem is through, you will all be dead.'"

* * *

He frowned. They were tougher than he thought. They may be unnerved, but they were not terrified. Not yet. But they would be.

They thought they were invincible. They thought they were strong and tough and smart. They thought they could survive. They thought they were good enough to survive. But they were not. And they would not. No one had ever been strong enough…or good enough…or tough or smart enough…

And when they were gone, he wouldn't think another thing about it.

They were only getting what they deserved.


	8. Things Yet Come to Pass

"Should we show this to Betty?" Joe mused. It was fifteen minutes later, and the boys had calmed down enough to partially think rationally. "She seems like the only other person here that might possibly have a bit of a heart—even if her cooking does stink."

Frank glared at his brother. "This is no time for jokes, Joe."

Joe stared at Frank, eyes wide and innocent; he was serious. "I wasn't joking, Frank. Try having a heaping helping of cockroach meatloaf shoved into your mouth."

Frank looked embarrassed. "Sorry, Joe. But honestly, I wish you hadn't made that comment about 'seeing something' in the food. That would have helped you not go through that awful mess."

Even though he knew his brother was trying to be helpful, Joe felt a pang of anger and resentment shoot through his heart, even though he knew that Frank was right.

"Sorry, bro. I wasn't thinking."

_'You NEVER think! That's the one thing I hate about you, you know that!'_

Joe shook his head, sure that he hadn't heard what he'd thought. "What?"

Frank sighed. "Were you not listening?"

_'And you NEVER listen! You have nearly gotten yourself killed so many times because you won't think, or listen. You're being stupid, that's all!'_

"I said, it's okay. It's a tough situation, but we've got to try and stick together."

_'I've always stuck by you, but that has only made things worse for me! I'm done with you.'_

"R-right. Stick together."

Frank looked at Joe, concerned. "Are you okay?"

_'You're a menace and a pain, and I'll be glad to be rid of you.'_

"Uh…yeah…I guess those roaches just made me a little crawly inside, that's all."

Frank rolled his eyes. "Funny, Joe."

_'The way you always make jokes at the most inappropriate times—it's childish, naïve, and the most immature thing I've ever seen. I hate it.'_

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

_'Yeah, you are sorry—a sorry excuse for a brother!'_

"I'M SORRY!" Joe bellowed, a crazed expression in his eyes. "Please don't leave me, Frank, please!"

Frank was taken aback by his brother's spastic behavior. "What? Joe, why would you even—"

"It's going to happen. Maybe not now, but later! I know what you don't like about me Frank!" Joe said, referring to what he had heard in his head. "You think I never listen and never think! I make jokes at 'inappropriate moments'. I'm a pain and a menace and sorry excuse for a brother and that's why you're going to leave me." He paused, tears welling up in his blue eyes. "I need a bathroom."

Betty appeared in the doorway, seemingly from nowhere. "Across the hall, second door to the left."

* * *

He smiled. Things were beginning to fall into place. Slowly, but he could see that one of them was already beginning to break. Before long, it would be time to deliver the final blow to the other one who had already lost the love of his life.

But it was okay. It was justified.

They were just getting what they deserved.

* * *

Joe crashed down next to the toilet and began to vomit onto the floor next to it, although there wasn't much of anything left to bring up, due to his previous experience. Then he fell to his face and sobbed.

* * *

Frank knocked on the bathroom door, but no one answered. "Joe, I know you're in there. What made you blow up like that? Are you okay?"

Again, no answer. Frank, determined to make sure his brother was okay, turned the doorknob and was surprised to find that the door was unlocked.

Upon opening the door, he was met with a horrific sight. Joe was lying on the floor, unmoving, his eyes opened wide in an expression of shock, a knife hilt sticking out of his chest. He was surrounded by an ever growing pool of his own blood.


	9. Darkness

"JOE!"

Frank squeezed his eyes shut, hoping and praying that when he opened them again, there would be no body on the floor; that his brother would be fine. He opened his bloodshot brown eyes and let out the loudest scream of anguish that had ever parted from his lips.

* * *

It was dark. He didn't know where he was. But he was somewhere.

He didn't know how he had gotten here. All he knew was that he was here. Wherever here was.

The last thing he remembered was feeling something hit him. And then falling into unconsciousness's welcoming arms. And now…

Well, now, he was here.

* * *

Frank fell to his knees over his brother's body, gasping. "Joe…you can't be gone…I…I need you…I love you…" He set his jaw and stood up, his heart weighing him down. He wanted to stay here, but he wanted to get away. And he knew what he had to do. "I'm going to  _kill_ whoever did this to you, Joe," he vowed before taking one last look at his baby brother and striding out into the house.

* * *

"Are you sure you weren't imagining things?" Betty wanted to know. "Like with your little girlfriend?"

Frank gritted his teeth angrily. "I told you, I don't know what I saw before. But now…" His voice cracked dangerously. "My little brother has been brutally murdered. He is lying in a  _pool of his own blood_! And I am getting justice. And then…then I'm going to…" He sighed. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to do anything worthwhile again."

Betty looked at him, almost sympathetically, then glanced around cautiously. "Garret and Jared aren't anywhere nearby," she said. "They wouldn't approve of me doing this. But show me the body."

* * *

A light flickered on above him. It was feeble, but at least he could see a bit.

A figure stepped out of the shadows. It was a man, at least seven feet tall, wearing a mask to cover his face. A black cloak hung around his shoulders. It spoke in the same high, cold voice that had sounded through the house earlier.

"You joined me early," it said.

He blinked, confused.

"Of course, you, apparently, have a horrible, demented past. It wasn't hard to break you."

He tried to speak, to tell the man that he could never be broken. But no sound would come out.

"Since you came early, I will reward you." There was a faint, evil laugh. "Would you like to hear more of my poem?" Without waiting for an answer, the man said, "'Monsters come out. They scream and shout."

The man disappeared into the shadows, and suddenly, he was surrounded. There was Iola, her black hair flying behind her. A mad rage in her eyes, she advanced. She was holding a dagger. Frank. He was there. He looked angry. He was holding a gun. And there was Chet Morton. Biff Hooper. Callie Shaw. Vanessa Bender. They were all lived. And they were all advancing, chanting together as if one: "'As your mind takes control, you can't see inside of your soul.'"

He turned and ran. He didn't know where he was going, but anywhere had to be better than here.

Footsteps pounded behind him as he fled.

And he couldn't run any faster.

* * *

"He's gone. I can't believe it."

"You imagined it," Betty said.

Frank and Betty had returned to the bathroom only to see that it was vacant. And there was no sign of Joe or his blood anywhere.

"No. I knew what I saw."

Betty shrugged, and Frank saw a gleam of something—guilt, maybe? Or fear? Or doubt?—in her eyes. But he knew something now.

He ran to her and grabbed her arm. "Please, Betty," he pleaded. "I need your help. What are you hiding from me?"

Betty bit her lip, then pulled him closer. "I…I know where your brother is."

Frank's face lit up with a hint of restored hope. "You mean, he's alive?"

"Not for long. I can show you where to find him, but you will only be playing into  _his_ clutches. Just leave. Run. Your brother is done for anyway, and you will be too, if you do this.  _He_ wants you, too. He was just able to get your brother first because he is easiest to break. But now, after what just happened, you are almost broken. Just leave."

Frank glared at the woman, disbelieving. "I am going to save my brother, and we will survive. Now tell me where to go."

Betty sighed, and responded, "The basement. The door that is boarded up. But be careful. You may never find your way out again."

Frank ignored her and headed for the basement. Upon opening the door he was met with darkness. He hesitated; wondered if this was a trap set by Betty. But then he heard his brother's yell. He raced down the stairs, more than two at a time.

He was so intent on saving Joe that he didn't even notice when the door was shut once more and locked outside in five different places.

* * *

It was almost time; he could feel it. They were breaking. And soon they would be broken. And suffering would take over their minds and bodies. They would die from the sheer agony—emotional and physical.

But he felt no guilt.

They were getting what they deserved.


	10. Truths Revealed

Joe Hardy had never been more terrified in his whole life. Looking around, he saw the faces of all the people he had known and loved back in Bayport—but now, his life seemed like a distant memory, a separate past…He saw Iola staring at him, an angry defiance in her eyes. Of all the people that now surrounded him, hers was the most vivid face. Her eyes glinted in malice, and Joe could have sworn he saw a flash of red in their depths.

Finally, he wrenched his eyes off of her beautiful, terrible face and forced himself to let his eyes travel across the small room he had just been cornered in. Biff and Chet smiled darkly, evilly at him. Vanessa's long, blonde hair surrounded her glaring face like a halo of a demon angel. Callie Shaw had a horrible, mocking smile that didn't make it to her glassy eyes. And Frank…Now, Frank had no other emotion in his expression other than disappointment. Disappointment in Joe. And that cut him deeper than if Frank had still been glaring at him like all the others.

They continued to chant in hollow, horrible voiced.  _"Where nightmares thrive, where your fears come alive. Where the ghosts of your past, and things yet come to pass. Monsters come out, they scream and shout. As your mind takes control, you can't see inside your soul."_

They continued their endless, mindless chant, eyes unblinking, faces dead. Joe took another step back, panicking as he hit the wall behind him—he was trapped against the wall, surrounded. "Why are you doing this to me?" he whispered hysterically, to no one in particular.

At once, the figures fell still and silent. Finally, Iola spoke up. "We want you to die, Joe Hardy," she hissed, her voice bitter and heartless.

"D-die? But why?" Joe pleaded, not understanding any of this, just wanting to get home. He wanted to pretend that none of this had ever happened.

"Why?" Iola spat, looking taken aback. "Because you—just like your dear brother—need to get what you deserve. Like every other living thing on this earth, it is time for you to face judgment, to get what has been coming to you ever since you first contaminated the earth with your vile presence."

Joe stared blankly at her, not wanting to comprehend what she had just said. "But…why do I deserve this? What have I ever done to you guys?"

Iola gave him a reproaching look. "Surely you know," she said darkly. "Think of what you did to me when I was alive," she sneered.

"I loved—love you," Joe said desperately.

But Iola ignored him. "You never appreciated me, Joe," she said, eyes flashing. "You'd rather spend your time flirting with blonde tramps than be with me. And then, in my greatest hour of need, you deserted me.  _You let me die, Joe Hardy._ "

"No, I didn't—"

But Callie was speaking. "You always hated me," she snarled. "You were mean to me. You made rude comments to me, and despised it when I came to visit. You thought I was going to steal your big brother away from you. Couldn't you see that I only wanted to be your friend?"

"But I did—"

"You are too overprotective," Vanessa said. "You are a needy, jealous boyfriend. You never let me have any fun, or even so much as look at other guys. Like Billy Barta.* You remember him?"

"Vanessa, not you too?" Joe was on his knees now, hysterical and helpless.

"You always have to be better than me, don't you, Joe?" Joe stared at the possessed Biff, not believing what he was hearing. "If I'm receiver on the football team, you have to be quarterback. If I can lift 100 pounds, you have to lift 150. You always have to be the better athlete, don't you? Does it give you some sort of twisted satisfaction, to see me struggling to catch up with you?"

Joe gaped at him. "Biff, I never—"

Chet cut into the conversation. "You killed my little sister," he growled, fury in his voice. "She had so many hopes and dreams for the future, and you ruined that for her.  _She trusted you._  But you let her down. It's your fault she's dead, and I'll never  _ever_  forgive you for that."

Joe sunk down even further on the floor, his hands clutching blindly at his hair. "No, I'm sorry, I tried to save her, but…"

"But what?" His voice was soft and dangerous. Joe looked up into the depths of those big, brown eyes he had seen comfort and understanding in all his life, but now all that stared back at him was disappointment, embarrassment in Joe, and anger.

"But you…"

"I know what you think, Joe Hardy. You think that I am the reason Iola died. You've blamed it on me for all these months—'if only Frank hadn't stopped me.' Well, at that time, I actually  _did_ love you. I was trying to  _help_ you, to save you from the same fate. But all you could do was get angry. You are so unappreciative, Joe Hardy. You don't listen to reason and you are much too impulsive. Even Mom and Dad think so. You're an embarrassment and a burden—to us all."

There was a silence broken up only by Joe's cries.

Then Iola spoke once more. "You see, Joe? You have done so much to us. We all want to see you dead. We want to see you get what you deserve." 

* * *

Frank Hardy clambered to the bottom of the stairs, struggling to find his way in the pitch black. "Joe!" he yelled desperately, painfully unaware of where he was going. The only thing in his mind was finding his little brother and making sure he was really alive. He wouldn't relax until he could see Joe for himself. 

* * *

Iola raised the knife, and 'Frank' leveled the gun at his brother's head. "We want you to die, slowly and painfully. Like I did. I burned to death. Do you know how excruciating it is? Have you ever smelled your own burning flesh?"

Joe moaned and gazed upwards, tears rolling down his face. "Are you going to shoot me?" he asked. There was no pleading in his voice, only a horrified sadness.

Iola laughed terribly. "Do you really think we'd let you off that easy?" At her next words, Joe's eyes grew wide with terror. "You are going to suffer the same fate I did."

"But how—"

"We are not of this world, Joe Hardy. You are at our mercy."

"You are going to burn to death, just like me. The only difference is, you will burn from the inside out—and your suffering will only end in death when I bid it to." 

* * *

Frank was beginning to panic. Since he had entered the basement, all had been dark. He had stumbled blindly through many silent, cold rooms, but to no avail. He could not find his brother. He couldn't even see two inches in front of his own face. This wasn't a normal darkness. It was supernatural. He knew this because, although he had been in the basement for nearly half an hour, his eyes hadn't adjusted at all. It was as if he were blind. 

He heard a strange, forlorn sound. At first, he thought it was someone choking. But then he stumbled a few steps in the direction the noise was coming from, and it became more distinct. Someone was crying. They were sobbing and weeping, desperate and helpless and hopeless.

It was Joe.

Frank felt terror well up inside him, because he could not help his brother. He couldn't see; he couldn't move. It was coming from all directions now. "Joe," he whispered, falling to his knees.

 _'Frank! No! Help!'_ A scream of anguish. Then nothing.

These words came from one place, but at the same time, they came from a hundred different directions. He was confused; horrified.

Another scream. He fell to his knees, frantic prayers flickering through his foggy mind.  _'Don't let this be real…Let Joe be safe…Get me out of here…Help me…'_

He let out a yell of fury and fear that seemed to come back at him, surrounding and choking him. He struggled to move; to breathe, but the exhaustion was overwhelming.

He let himself go, and succumbed to the darkness. All was still. All was dark. All was silent. 

* * *

A crooked smile turned up one corner of his lips. He was pleased. One was about to be broken, but he wasn't to face the bliss of death—yet. The other was harder to break. Perhaps it was because he was not as emotional as the other. Or, perhaps it was because he had not had such a traumatic thing—the violent death of a loved one—actually happen. But the boy was on his way to being broken. 

He saw the young man screaming and his smile grew. He was now vulnerable. It was time to break him.

Only two more verses of the poem left. Then their time would be over. They would finally face judgment.

And, at last, they would get what they deserved.


	11. To Be Broken

He heard her, even before he had returned. Her voice was sweet, beautiful, and melodic. _"Frank…you need to come back to me…"_

"Callie?"

He wasn't awake yet, he hadn't returned, but he had found his voice.

_"It's me, Frank. I want you back…you need to wake up…There is something I must say to you…"_

"Tell me now."

_"I cannot. I yearn to look into your eyes once more, and to gaze upon your face as I reveal my heart to you."_

Frank wanted to come back, but he could not. He was still confined in a space that was between life and death; good and evil; love and hate; sanity and insanity…dark and light.

"I can't."

_"If you do not, you may never see my face again."_

"I'm trying…"

Willing every ounce of his strength to come forth and course though his body, he forced his eyes open and hungrily set them upon the face of the girl he had loved for so long.

She looked into his eyes and he screamed louder than he ever had in his whole life at the horrendous sight before him.

* * *

Never had he felt so much pain. He had been gruesomely injured many times in his life—more often than not, due to foul play, so he was no stranger to pain.

Until now.

This was not a pain of this earth—it was supernatural, consuming, and demonic. It was a pain that would make anyone submit instantly and willingly to death. And that is what he yearned for more than anything—a sweet escape into the arms of death. But he could not die.

The emotional and mental torture was almost as bad as the physical pain. He was strong. He had always been tough and able to deal with anything life dealt out to him. And life had dealt a lot his way. He had been kidnapped and tortured almost to his breaking point. But he had never even been cracked. He had been shot, stabbed, and tormented until he had almost given in. But no one had ever been able to break him.

Until now.

He had started to crack the first time he had seen Iola and witnessed the hatred in her once-living eyes. His bravery and morale had continued to be chipped away as he heard the sni3de and uncaring remarks of his brother echoing endlessly through his head. And when he had found himself in the forsaken, dark place, being pursued by  _them_ , he knew that he was going to be broken. It would be inevitable.

The horrible truths that the evil spirits imitating his friends had revealed had brought him to the edge. He was pushed over into an unrelenting abyss of torment when he had felt the first rush of inhuman pain.

He had never wanted to give up and die. He was strong. He was tough. He was a fighter.

Until now.

* * *

The face was terrible, that of a demon. Unearthly hate and evil consumed it. It was demented and twisted, charred black by the flames of deceit. The eyes were red and dangerous, ready to kill.

Frank had thought he had heard Callie Shaw. He had thought he would awake to find out that this had all been a dream. Instead, he had woken back up into his nightmare.

The thing—the demon, monster, or whatever it was—had an abundance of white hair that slithered around its head, blowing in an eerie, ice-cold breeze that had appeared out of nowhere. Its body had no form or shape; it was just there. Frank couldn't comprehend it; he didn't want to.

It spoke, and Frank's heart nearly stopped when he heard its voice. Although it was laced with malice, despite, and deceit; lathered with the need for pain and agony, he recognized it.

"Thank you for coming back to me, Frank. I knew you would."

Callie.

* * *

The fire was spreading. It was inside of him, and he couldn't see it, but he could feel it, and he knew.

At first, he had thrashed around desperately, trying without effect to escape from the excruciating pain he was experiencing, but soon he became exhausted. He stopped moving. Now, he wouldn't have been able to move an inch of his body if he had tried. The pain grew worse.

He lay helpless on the icy floor and screamed for help, screamed for death. But no one answered his call. And Death would no oblige.

* * *

She touched his face. Her hands were colder than any substance on earth. He shivered. She drew her hand away, no emotion evident on her gruesome face.

"You disappoint me, Frank."

He struggled to move, to get away from the terrible apparition, but he could not. He was unable to take any control of his own body. He could barely breathe.

"Frank, we could have had so much together. We wanted to get married, didn't we, Frank?"

"Callie, why—?"

"We wanted to have children, to grow old together. We wanted to pass into eternity together, hand-in-hand; side-by-side."

"What are you—?"

"I always put you first, Frank. I spent every moment of the time I had with you. You were my comfort, my sweet escape. I wanted you to feel the same about me."

"I did—"

"DON'T LIE TO ME!" Her voice became deadly, her face, even more contorted and repulsive.

An edge still evident in her cold voice, she continued, "You had someone else, Frank Hardy. You had another person, to whom you would always look to first when you had a problem, before me, even."

"I never—"

"You had someone you always put before me, someone you loved more than me." There was spite in her voice that made a shiver go up his spine.

"I never had anyone but you," Frank insisted desperately. "You know you were the only one for me. You still are."

"LIAR!" the demon-Callie screamed.

"But…"

"Oh, I see," Callie crooned in a sickening mock sweetness. "You think I am talking about another woman, another girl." She shook her hideous head in fake amusement. "Naïve, naïve Frank. For someone so intelligent, you can be very dense. I cannot believe you haven't realized who I am talking about. I am sure that he feels the same way about me."

Suddenly, something the first demon he had encountered had said sprung into his mind. "Joe?" he gasped. "You're talking about Joe?"

"It took you long enough, didn't it, Frank?" she sneered.

"But I never—"

"No one else likes you either, Frank," Callie continued, a twisted pleasure in her voice.

"What do you mean?"

"Biff thinks you belong in a prep school. Vanessa thinks you're cruel to your brother. Iola blames you for her death, since you stopped Joe from saving her. Chet thinks you are a goody-goody that's too much of a know-it-all for your own good. And Joe…well, Joe thinks you are a bossy, obnoxious, tyrant. He thinks that you hate him, and he hates you for it."

Frank felt tears well up in his eyes. "No," he whispered. "It…it's not true. They never said—"

"They never had to say, Frank," Callie said in a soft, threatening voice. "It should have been obvious."

"But Joe—"

"Joe  _hates_ you, Frank. He wants you to die. We all do."

"No…"

"Yes. He wants you to perish forever. He has always wished that he didn't have a big brother to outshine him and still daddy's affection."

"That's not true…" But there was doubt in his voice and panic in his eyes.

A loud voice suddenly sounded throughout the house. It was  _him._ "Break him now!"

A cruel smile lit up her lips. "Your brother is being tortured right at this very moment. Did you know that, Frank?"

His eyes grew wide with horror and a tear crawled down his ashen cheek. "No…"

"Yes. Ye is being burned from the inside out."

"No!"

"Yes. I wanted to do the same to you, but now I have a better idea. Instead of burning, you will freeze to death, starting from the inside. And finally, when  _he_ says that you and your brother are to die, you will exit this world in a torrent of pain and face the judgment you deserve."


	12. A Sliver of Hope

They were being tortured. They were being broken. She could feel it. She could always feel it.

She was going to help the oldest one first. She knew the youngest would be impossible to calm without his brother.

She could hear them screaming, both of them. She could tell where the tortured shrieks were coming from, but she didn't need to hear. She knew where she was going.

She always knew.

* * *

His lungs were burning with an unrelenting fire. His stomach churned boiling water. His bloodstream was coursing with liquid fire. It was now spreading down his arms and to his fingertips.

He screamed louder than he had ever done before. It wouldn't stop. He begged for death. The fire roared in defiance. He knew what that mean.

He was to suffer much more before he was welcomed into death.

* * *

An unearthly cold was seizing his lungs, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The pain was so horrible and so overwhelming; he wished that he could die.

He screamed. His body was freezing; shutting down. He wanted to give into death, but something lingered at the back of his mind, something he wasn't ready to let go of just yet.

Joe.

How could he wish to leave this life and not try to save his brother? He loved Joe. But… _'Your brother hates you…'_ Callie's words echoed through his pain-racked head. Joe hated him…

The ice seized his lungs again. He could feel it spreading and growing. Tears streamed down his face. "I WANT TO DIE!" he sobbed as the liquid ice traveled slowly and steadily through his bloodstream.

But Death wouldn't answer.

* * *

She was almost there. He was breaking. If she did not reach him soon, there would be no room for hope. They would be lost forever in  _his_ façade of hopelessness.

But she would get there in time. She always did.

* * *

H was exhilarated; pumped with adrenaline, like he always was when he came so close. They were almost broken. The poem was almost to a close. Then he could end it all. Finally.

There was only one problem.  _She_ had returned. She always returned at the height of his glory. But she had never been able to defeat him. Still…

He turned to Betty, Garret, and Jared, who were lined up before him, eyes flashing crimson. "Faithful servants," he hissed, "do my bidding now. Find her, and kill her. I do not care how you do it, but I want her dead. Now."

They left with only one task in mind: Kill the girl.

* * *

He sensed her before he saw her: a tiny glimmer of hope. He didn't know where it came from or what had caused it, but he held onto it.

Callie must have sensed that his desperation was depleting. "Don't keep hope," she murmured. "Hopelessness is the foundation of your fate. You want to die, don't you? To escape the pain?"

Frank struggled for an answer, wanting to say yes, to end it all. But he could not. For some reason, there was a bit of hope lingering in his heart. Then he heard it, a promising voice in the back of his head.

' _I don't hate you, Frank.'_

"Joe?"

"NO!" Callie yelped, directing more ice to consume him. He screamed again, but this time, not so loud. The pain had lessened. "Your brother is dying, Frank! He cannot speak with you. Even if he could, he would not. He hates you. He does not wish to waste his time on you."

' _Frank, I am alive, and I need you to come save me. There IS hope. Don't give up.'_

"I won't give up!" Frank gasped, ignoring another burst of smothering pain.

"You made a very good choice, Frank," a new voice interjected. It was soft and sweet, like that of a small infant's. Frank was oblivious as to who was speaking.

"Giving up is a horrible thing to do."

This time, he saw the speaker and gasped. She was a child, no older than four years old. Long, white-blonde hair fell down her small back in tiny ringlets. Her skin was white—not pale, just white—and her full, little lips were a light shade of pink, as were her cheeks. She dressed in a snow-white dress that reached her ankles, with short, ruffled sleeves that revealed her chubby arms. She wore no shoes. But what really got him were here eyes. They were silver. She was the most beautiful child he had ever seen.

Callie seemed to think otherwise. "You! Away from us, you hideous creation!"

"No, spirit," the little girl said softly. "Leave us alone."

With a cry of anger mingled with surprise, the demon-Callie was sucked away into nothingness.

The pain instantly disappeared and Frank was left lying on the floor, gasping for breath. The girl knelt over him, concern in her compassionate young eyes.

"Are you okay? You need to get up!"

Frank forced himself to stand. "How—how did you do that?"

"The spirits can't be near me," the girl stated. Frank waited for more of an explanation, but none came.

She took his hand in her soft one, and he was amazed at the strength of her grip. "Come on, we have to save your brother before it is too late."

She began to lead him away, and although it was dark, she seemed to know exactly where she was going. And Frank didn't doubt her judgment.

He stopped. She did too, but there was a look of confusion on her honest face. "What's wrong? Don't you want to save your brother?"

"Of course I do. But, first, tell me who you are. What are you doing here?"

The child hesitated, then, ignoring his last question, smiled and said, "My name is Hope."

Frank repeated the name. "Hope." He liked the sound of that.

* * *

He was blinded by the pain. Fire; fire was everywhere. His whole body was on fire. He screamed again, and Iola chuckled.

"Now you know how I felt, Joe."

"NO! NO!" he screamed madly.

He heard all the voices at once.  _'You are getting what you deserve…Soon, you will face your judgment…you are breaking…what you deserve…what you deserve…what you…what you…deserve.'_

A new voice entered in. "I love you, Joe. You don't deserve this. Don't give up." The voice was calm, but there was an edge of panic in it. Frank?

* * *

Frank was there, but he could not see the personal demons Joe was dealing with. He looked down upon his brother and saw nothing but a terrified young man squirming and shaking and screaming for death. It scared him.

* * *

He tried to move, to open his eyes. But the fire was too strong, too painful. He waited.

Another voice joined in with his brother's, this one foreign and young. "Leave him alone, you spirits."

He heard the screams of fury and shock, and then silence. He did not open his yes, but lay there, random bursts of pain still jolting his body. He felt his brother's hand gently touch his perspiring forehead, but did not open his eyes, in pain and ashamed.

"It's okay, little brother," Frank's voice came soothingly. "I know how you feel. Just take deep breaths. The pain will go away."

"I—It's all over, Frank," Joe croaked, and Frank saw that tears were still running down his face. Frightened, Frank turned to Hope and asked, "What's wrong with him? He's not recovering like I did."

It felt odd, asking a four-year-old what to do, but somehow, it just seemed…right.

"He has no hope left," the girl said knowledgably. "He was tortured longer, and had something very bad happen in his past. This was worse because Iola's death."

"But—Callie—" Frank was suddenly struck with a wonderful prospect. "You mean I didn't really lose Callie? It was all a…'vision', like Joe was?"

Hope did not answer, but stared up at him with her big, silver eyes. Although she had said nothing, Frank was still filled with a glorious hope and faith that Callie was alive and not the monster he had experienced earlier.

* * *

Betty, Garret, and Jared tramped into the depths of the basement. It was time to do what their master had bid them; the one thing that had been impossible to accomplish thus far.

The child had to die.

* * *

Joe opened his eyes. The first thing that he saw when he did this was Frank's face. He knew it wasn't the monster because of the kind, loving gaze that was being directed at him from those brown depths.

Joe heaved himself to a sitting position, sweating and gasping for breath. "Frank," he cried hoarsely. "There's nothing left. No hope, no chance, no—"

"There is hope," Frank persisted.

Joe's eyes moved to the child. They grew wide as he said, "Frank, there's a kid here! What are we going to do? We have to—"

Without saying a word, the little girl walked forward and took Joe's hand in her soft, chubby fingers. "It's okay," she whispered soothingly.

At her touch, Joe felt a wonderfully comforting feeling in his heart, spreading a beautiful, consuming warmth throughout his body. The stinging pain disintegrated, and he felt good—hopeful—again. He smiled. Something about this girl seemed oddly familiar.

Frank, relieved, said, "Joe, this is—"

"Hope," Joe finished for his brother, still pondering the familiar appearance of the girl.

Frank stared at him in amazement. "How did you know that?"

Joe shrugged. "I just do."

Frank turned to Hope. "What next?" he asked her. He now had no doubt in his tiny savior.

As Joe stood up, Hope answered, "You cannot escape this house until you have vanquished the darkness," the four-year-old said eerily. "You have to take  _him_ on before you will physically be able to walk out of here."

"Okay, who is  _him_?" Joe asked, hoping their new ally would tell.

But Hope merely replied, "You will know who  _he_  is when you see his face, like you did mine."

Frank was about to respond when he felt a sudden fear wash over him. By the look on Joe's face, his brother had felt it, too. He looked up to see Betty, Garret, and Jared in the doorway. They were looking at little Hope, murder in their eyes.


	13. Hope of the Afflicted

"Betty? Garret? Jared? What are you guys doing here?" Joe questioned in what he hoped was a light, friendly, and offhand tone. Inside, his stomach was churning apprehensively.

Pausing for a moment in their advance, evil smiles curved the lips of the threesome, and, in unison, they said, "We have come to do the bidding of our master."

They continued to walk slowly across the room, a murderous glint in their eyes. Between the brothers, little Hope reached up and took either one of their hands. The boys felt the warmth radiating from the child's skin, but this time, felt no comfort from it. Hope began to back away slowly, Frank and Joe following her suit.

Frank leaned down and whispered, "What is going on, Hope? What do they want?"

Joe's face was pale, even in the semi-darkness, and he muttered, "I thought  _he_  wanted to wait until the poem was over."

"Oh, he does," Hope said darkly. "These demons are not after you. Their goal is to finish me."

The boys were amazed that such a young girl could be so calm about someone trying to take her life. But, then again, Hope was a very strange child. It was also impossible for their minds to comprehend why anyone would want to harm such a wonderful infant. They did not voice this, but Hope seemed to hear it anyway, or at least know what they were thinking. A sad smile on her dainty lips, she said, "I scare him because I present hope in a place that has been hopeless for a long, long time. I have never been able to stop him before, because the other victims wouldn't allow me to help them. They were too frightened and hopeless to listen to me, or to accept my help. And thy perished."

As she talked, she continued to pace backward at the same slow and steady pace that the three demons walked forward.

"But  _he_  knows that you are different. Even though you have been broken, you are still able to grasp a little bit of hope and faith. You love and care about each other, and your bond strengthens that.  _He_ is afraid that if I am with you, adding to your hope,  _he_ will not win."

"Win what?" Joe asked finally. He tried not to notice that a solid wall was only twenty feet away and growing closer. "What exactly does  _he_  want to accomplish by all of this?"

"This is his house," Hope said, a dark edge to her sweet voice. "This is his game, and he makes the rules. He has never lost his game. He has  _always_ won."

"Wait a minute," Frank said. He glanced behind them. The wall was fifteen feet away. "What _game_?"

"His rules are simple, but horrible," Hope said knowingly. "Try to stay sane. Try not to be broken. Try to stay alive. No one has ever won his game," she repeated, "and the penalty of losing is death."

They hit the wall. There was nowhere to go. Betty, Garret, and Jared moved in closer. Joe turned to Hope. "Can't you send them away like the other ones?"

Hope shook her head. "The others were lone spirits," she informed them. "These are real people with demons possessing their souls. I cannot send them away, because if I do, the demons will steal the people's life force and take it with them. I cannot cause the deaths of two innocent people. People only survive being possessed if the demons leave willingly."

"We can't just let them get you," Joe said reverently.

"There is nothing you can do," Hope said firmly. "I will be okay. I can care for myself."

"I know you are special," Frank said, for lack of a better word, "but you are just a child. There is no way you can take on three demon-possessed giants by yourself."

"You forget, I am not 'just a child'," Hope said quietly. She smiled serenely at the brothers. Joe thought the gesture was familiar, but he couldn't decide from where. "Let your hope grow," she advised. "As it grows, so will I. As I have given you hope, you can now give it back to me. As long as there is some hope in this place, they will not be able to touch me."

Joe saw a flash of brown in the silver eye that seemed so familiar all of a sudden…

"How can we make our hope grow? And how can we keep it without you?" Frank asked desperately as Garret and Jared came forward and grabbed either one of the little girl's wrists in their gigantic hands. They boys had to restrain from jumping the men.

Something small and pink fell out of Hope's dress pocket. A book of some kind. It landed at their feet, and, as she was led away, the child said, "Psalm nine eighteen! It will give you the answer you need!"

And they were gone. Frank and Joe stared at each other, confused and terrified. What little hope they did have seemed to have left with the tiny girl.

"I can't believe we just let them take her," Joe said, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"I can't believe she just went willingly," Frank said softly.

Joe cleared his throat. "It looks like they're going to leave us alone—for now. Until then, though…what did Hope mean, Psalm nine eighteen?"

Frank glanced at the book that had fallen out of her pocket. "You know," he said slowly, "as weird as it sounds, it almost sounds like a…"

"Bible verse," Joe finished for him, doubt in his voice.

Frank picked up the book. Reading the front, he saw that it said,  _The Book of Psalms of David_. "Looks like it is," Frank said. "But how could it help us now?"

"Maybe there's a hidden message somewhere in it," Joe said.

"Not hidden," Frank said, as he had already flipped to the eighteenth verse of the ninth chapter. "Clear as day. Listen: 'But the needy will not always be forgotten, nor the hope of the afflicted ever perish.'" A look of wild excitement lit up his face, Frank said, "This is it! This is what Hope had been trying to tell us all along!"

Joe eyed his older brother as if he were crazy. "Which is…?"

"We  _can_  do this, Joe! Our hope is not going to perish and die as long as we keep it in our hearts! And when the time comes to take  _him_ on, whoever he is, then as long as we have hope, we should be able to beat him!"

_Clap. Clap. Clap._

His hands came together thrice, then his voice radiated throughout the basement room as his cloaked figure stepped into the room.

"Very good, boys, very good. You are smarter than I anticipated. But no more. Do you really believe that mere  _hope_ can save you from your fate? Whether you know it or not, your doom, your judgment has already been decided for you."

"Who are you?" Joe demanded, trying to keep his hope and faith intact. He raised his fists defensively.

The man laughed a shrill, high, cold laugh. "Oh, it is not time for me to kill you yet, boy," he sneered. "There are still two stanzas of my poem left. Would you like to hear the next one?" Without waiting for a reply, he began to chant,  _"A place where dreams become a reality, and your worst fears you can clearly see. Right in front of your eyes, a horrific surprise."_ He paused, then went on, savoring each word, and lathering it in malice. "Do you boys know what that means? It means that you might as well forget the message that done for kid left for you. You might as well abandon hope right now. Because, if you think it was bad before? That was only the beginning."

There was a flash of light, and everything went black. Frank and Joe were instantly separated, supernaturally transported to opposite rooms of the basement.  _His_ voice sounded throughout the entire house. "Don't be angry at me, though. You are only getting what you deserve."

* * *

The boys, on opposite ends of the house, had already forgotten Hope's message. Out of the darkness came figures of night, of evil intent. Demons splattered in blood, scarlet and crimson staining their bodies. The faces of people they thought they knew surrounding them, laughing; taunting. Things that had only existed in their nightmares came forth and advanced on them. They tried to scream, but no sound came.

Truly, their nightmare had only begun.

* * *

Somewhere, in a desolate room in the house, young Hope listened to their tormented screams and was sad. They hadn't listened. They had forgotten.

They still had an ounce of hope. But it was draining fast. Right now, the demons could not touch her because of that hope. But soon, if they did not recall the message she had left, it would be gone. And then she would be helpless. They fed on her hope and she fed on theirs. Theirs was almost gone, and she was growing weaker.

She had to do something. She knew what she had to do. It would be dangerous, maybe even deadly, but the sacrifice would be worth the ultimate prize. She moved past the demons, who made moves to grasp her again, but she shook her head. "You can't touch me. Not now."

They stared at her, open-mouthed, as she left the room and headed for the boys. She had to give them what little hope she had left.

* * *

The monsters were closing in. The boys couldn't get away. They screamed. And the demons only moved in closer.


	14. Out of Darkest Dreams

The demons had been advancing on him, writhing and slithering grotesquely; snarling and screaming. Joe had never been so terrified. He saw people who had died because of him…Al-Rousasa, the terrorist who had been responsible for Iola's death…Iola herself, this time looking pitiful and helpless as the Al-Rousasa tortured her brutally. There was Frank, a gloating, evil look on his face. Why did he keep coming back?

Something twitched and started to creep toward him from a corner of the room. Its long, hairy legs overlapped each other as the creature scuttled slowly forward, a low clicking noise emanating from its body.

Joe had always hated spiders. Now there was a ten-foot arachnid looming above him, its many eyes gleaming in malice and baring its fangs terribly.

Joe shrank away in fright. The beast hissed, and Joe let out a terrified whimper. Frank, an evil glint in his eyes, pointed a finger at Joe. "Attack," he said calmly. And the demon-spider sprang. 

* * *

Frank was alone. Or was he? He kept hearing strange, outworldy noises that chilled him to the bone. Distant sobbing; a cry of pain. Someone pleading for something…probably their life. He hated people suffering… 

He could make out the voices more clearly now. His mother was crying, her sobs of anguish heart wrenching. His father…that was who was yelling in pain. Frank fell to his knees. He couldn't stop their anguish. He was powerless.

The last realization was the hardest blow. Joe was pleading for his life, and somehow, Frank knew, without a doubt, that this wasn't in his head. This was happening for real, right now. He could do nothing about it.

He glanced down and saw a shadow of his brother, lying on the floor, dead. His blue eyes were open wide, an expression of horror and shock still lingering on his features. Blood covered his body, making it impossible to tell where the wound was really at.

Frank didn't know if it was real or not. And that scared him more than anything. Either his little brother was dead on the floor, or a demon was right in front of him, ready to strike at any moment. Neither prospect was appealing, but Frank prayed with all of his being that it really was a demon. He would never get over it if Joe died. Never.

Suddenly, he knew for a fact that this was a demon. The "dead" Joe figure had risen to its feet, and the corpse snarled, "You killed me, Frank. You couldn't save me in time."

Frank tried to resist; tried to remind himself that this wasn't really his brother, but what if it was? Anything was possible in this house of horrors, and Frank was beginning to doubt even his own existence. Tears spilled down his face.

"It is time for my revenge. You killed me, 'brother'," Joe mocked, "and so now, I kill you in return."

Frank looked up to see Joe, a mask of blood shielding his face, with a knife raised above his head. His arm swung down as he aimed the dagger directly for Frank's heart. 

* * *

He was shaking, he was so excited. Never did the feeling die when he was about to win his game. Every time, it was always the same. And he loved it.

The last part of the poem was to be recited soon. Dawn was drawing closer. They had to be dead by then. Otherwise, he would lose.

And he never lost.

And they always got what they deserved. 

* * *

Hope knew she had to act soon. She was coming up on Joe; she could feel his pain as much as his hope, which was diminishing slowly. "Why didn't you listen to me?" she asked no one in particular, mournfully. It always happened this way.

But not now. Not this time. She had to stop it.  _He_ couldn't win this game again.

And he wouldn't.

She stepped into the room. Joe Hardy was unconscious, blood seeping from many open wounds. A horrendous spider was crouched over him, waiting for further orders.

He was still alive. She didn't have to see the shallow breaths as he struggled to breathe. She knew that  _he_ wasn't finished yet.

There was still more of the poem to go. 

* * *

The girl had escaped. He was angry. More angry than he had ever been. It was time to act. Now. 

They would die. All of them. And he would win.

He always won.


	15. Reunited

He frowned. This wasn't going the way he planned, not at all. The child was much too elusive. Despite the fact that his guests were on the verge of insanity, the girl was on her way to revive them. And that wasn't good.

He thought for a moment, something he was very good at doing. The game couldn't be won without doing it, and he always won the game. Normally, he loved to think. But now, the more he thought, the angrier he got. He knew it now: there was only one solution.

It was time to finish the poem.

He wanted to play with them more, however. Despite the minor setbacks, this had been the most fun he had had in a long time. This time, the game had been challenging. He liked a challenge; it kept him on his toes. But he had to turn the tables, before it spun out of control.

Because he couldn't lose. Not now. Not ever.

He never lost.

And he didn't intend to this time.

* * *

Hope had never moved so fast in her life. She rushed across the room, and just as the spider was about to maul the boy again, threw herself across his chest. The spider drew back, snarling. The demon-Frank glared at the child.

"Get away from him, you witch!" he hissed.

The child laughed darkly. "Me? A witch? You, the devil's spawn, think it wise to call  _me_ a witch?"

"You little—"

"You cannot touch me, demon," she said simply. "Leave him."

"You do not tell me what to do. I do what my master bids me. Now leave us, before I have to kill you as well."

"You cannot kill hope," the girl whispered. "As long as there is some hope in their hearts, I am untouchable. You see, you have made a mistake. He was not entirely hopeless when you set your monster on him. When he fell into unconsciousness, the hope did not die. So it still lingers, and it will not fade while he is unaware of his surroundings. He is unconscious—for a short time, he has escaped you and your demonic torture."

The demon-Frank's face twisted into a hideous scowl. "Scum!" it hissed.

She took a step forward. "Go. Now."

There was fear in the demon's eyes now. It knew it had to comply. "My master will kill you," it hissed before it disappeared. "He will never let you win his game."

It was gone, and the spider with it. Hope knelt down over Joe's body and put her hand on his blood-soaked cheek. She hated to bring him back to this torment, but he had to wake up. It would be painful, but it was the only way. Only when the brothers were okay and together could _he_ lose.

It was four o'clock AM. The sun rose at six. Two more hours. If they could last two more hours, he would lose. But it would not completely destroy him if he lost. It would be a big blow, but the best way to stop him would be to defeat him physically and mentally before the sun came up.

"Joe, wake up. It's okay. They are gone. You need to come back. We need you.  _Frank_  needs you."

Joe groaned. "It hurts," he whispered.

Hope stroked his face compassionately. "What hurts, Joe?"

"Everything," he gasped. He began to tremble. "A spider—Frank—he doesn't need me. He tried to kill me."

"No, Joe, that was—"

"No, Hope…it's—it's okay," he said with effort, pain from the many lacerations causing his body to seize up in pain. "I understand now. I have—have accepted it." But there were tears rolling down his bloodstained face. "Frank really  _does_  hate me. He wants me dead. It's over."

"No, Joe!" Hope whispered desperately. A spark of brown flashed, different than the first time he had seen it in his eyes. So oddly familiar.

"Frank?" Joe muttered. His eyes lolled back in his head and his body went limp. Hope stood, tiny worry lines on her forehead. This was worse than she had thought.

* * *

Frank didn't even try to stop the knife. He knew it was virtual suicide, to not even try and defend himself, but he was too disoriented to care. He wanted it to end.

But just as the knife was about to pierce his skin, there was a horrible, sinister voice from across the room.  _Him._

"That is enough." The demon-Joe disappeared into thin air, and  _he_ crossed the room to Frank's side and grasped his hair in a strong, gloved hand. Frank gasped in pain as he was pulled to his feet.

"You wanted it to end, didn't you, Frank?"  _he_ hissed. "You didn't really think it would be over _that_  quickly, did you?" He shoved Frank toward the door and the boy did nothing to protest. All was lost.

 _He_ sighed. "I'm just sorry I can't play the game any longer, but it has become too precarious. Alas, it is time for me to recite the final words of the poem once you and your brother are reunited."

Frank looked up. Joe? He was alive? He felt a bit of hope prick his heart.

 _He_ laughed. "Don't be too excited. Your brother isn't in much of a mood to talk," he snarled. "But I need you side by side when I finally win the game. I want you both to see the lights leave the other's eyes as you lose the game, and finally— _finally—_ get what you deserve."


	16. Dying

_He_ led Frank through the basement. Frank didn't know where he was being taken, but he knew one thing: his brother was there. Frank knew their situation was beyond helpless, but if he could just see Joe again…the thought made him gain a bit of hope. No matter how awful the situation, as long as he and his brother were together, at least  _something_  was right.

But as soon as he saw Joe's battered, bloody, and almost unrecognizable body lying on the floor, he knew he was wrong. It really was over.

* * *

He felt a smile curve his mouth at the horrified and devastated look that took over the boy's face at his brother's condition. Things were back according to plan. He glanced down, and couldn't resist a joyous laugh. The kid really  _was_  in a bad way. The sight of all the blood thrilled him. _This_ was the way the game was supposed to go.

They were getting what they deserved.

* * *

The sight was utterly horrifying. Hope was on her knees beside his immobile brother, her hand on his face, whispering non-stop into his ear. But nothing seemed to revive him. She looked up when Frank and  _him_  entered the room. Then she went back to whispering to Joe.

 _He_ let go of Frank's arm. The boy ran to his brother's side, and  _he_  did nothing to stop him. Frank didn't take time to wonder why. He had to touch him, but in a way, he didn't want to. The figure lying on the floor was so covered in blood he didn't remotely look like Joe any more, and as much as Frank wanted to touch him, and feel for a pulse, he didn't want to find that his brother hadn't survived.

 _But he has to be alive,_  Frank thought. He  _needs us both for his stupid game._ That thought wasn't exactly comforting, either. But he had to try. For all he knew, this could be yet another apparition, and Joe could be alive in another part of the house. But somehow, Frank knew that wasn't true.  _He_ was taking an active role in what was going on. Frank sensed that the ultimate time had come.

He also knew that he and Joe weren't ready. Hope glanced up at him.  _Hope,_ he thought.  _We've got to keep hope… 'But the needy will not always be forgotten, nor the hope of the afflicted ever perish…'_

The psalm seemed to revive his spirits a bit, and, biting his lip, he put his hand on Joe's face. And felt blood. He felt tears fill his eyes. "It really is you," he whispered. He looked fearfully at Hope, who stared back with those silver eyes.

"He's alive," she said simply. Before she turned her gaze back on Joe, Frank thought he saw a fleck of blue in her unearthly silver eyes, but dismissed it, thinking he had imagined it.

He touched Joe's neck, checking his pulse. It was weak, but now Frank could see that Joe was breathing—shallow and struggling for each gasp of air—but he was alive! Frank tried to wake him. "Joe, please, come back to me."

 _He_  just stood in the background, hands placidly clasped behind his back. Frank knew that there had to be something wrong, but he couldn't contemplate it right now. His brother could be dying.

"Joe, please wake up!" He gently shook his brother's shoulder.

Hope slapped his hand away, a fierce fire in her eyes. Frank gaped at her. "What do you think you're doing?" he snapped, more harshly than he had originally intended. "Do you  _want_ my brother to die?"

It was a stupid question. It was his temper talking—a temper that was normally silent, but when his brother's life was at stake, it came out of hiding, with the ferocity of beast of prey, ready to attack anyone and anything that poked or prodded it the wrong way.

Hope just looked up at him with those ethereal eyes. "Just trust me." He saw another flash of blue and knew that he hadn't imagined it this time. Her tone of voice sounded so much like Joe's when he was annoyed or impatient…

Frank shook his head as if to clear out the demented visions and thoughts that had plagued him for so long—though in actuality, it was only a few hours. He was so set on saving Joe that he was seeing him everywhere. Even in a four-year-old child. He took a deep breath. And ignored Hope.

"Joe, wake up."

He thought he heard a satisfied chuckle from the entrance to the room. And footsteps. He didn't turn. He was imagining things. The visions and dementia was getting to him. But he knew one thing for sure. His brother, with his beaten body, was not a vision. Frank could touch him. He was real. He was alive.  _He had to be._

"Joe!"

Joe moaned and shifted his head—barely. His blue eyes fluttered open and saw Frank leaning over him.

And he screamed in terror and anguish, louder and more horrified than he ever had in his life.

"Frank—please, no, don't hurt me!"

The satisfied chuckle evolved into an enthralled, high-pitched laugh.


	17. Hopeless

Frank heard nothing other than his brother's terrified scream. Not the laughter of the maniac who had imprisoned them there. Not the gloating chortles from Betty, Garret, and Jared from the entrance, where they had joined their master. Not the shrieks and wails of the monsters that had converged in a corner of the room, ready to kill.

Joe was afraid of him.

Why? Why was his own brother, the most important person in the world to him, afraid of him? What had he done to make it so?

He had done nothing—the people who had tortured and nearly killed his brother had used a demon that took on his own appearance. Joe was so demented by now that he actually believed that Frank had tried to kill him. Frank couldn't blame him, though. Only minutes before, he had been the same way, certain that Joe was going to stab him through the heart. But seeing Joe alive had given him hope, and had restored him some. But not for long.

Somehow, he had to get through. He glanced over his shoulder. Betty, Garret, Jared, and  _him_ were standing in the doorway. There were evil smirks on the first three's faces, but Frank believed that if the latter's face could be seen from beneath the cloak, the same could be said for him.

"Joe, please—" Frank said softly.

"You—hurt me," Joe gasped, sobs racking his aching body. As if on cue, fresh blood poured from the many open wounds. Frank stared, and panicked as his brother's eyes became glassy.

"Joe—stay with me!" he yelled.

"Why?" Joe moaned in a hoarse whisper. "You—h—hate me. W-want me to d-die."

"No, Joe, never. I would never want that of you. Why would you even—"

"Made—giant spider—attack," Joe spluttered, his eyes sliding in and out of focus. One thing was for sure. Despite of all the visions and supernatural occurrences of the night, Joe's condition was real. If he didn't get medical help soon, he would die.

' _He's planning on killing us anyway,'_ Frank thought despairingly, then shoved the thought out of his mind. He felt sick to his stomach. A giant spider? Joe had a fear of spiders anyway—suddenly, he felt very guilty for all the teasing he had done through the years because of it. "Joe, I never—"

Joe spoke again, and his words came out in gasps. Frank had a bad feeling that there were some major internal injuries. Joe needed a doctor. "They all—say—it's you. Can't all—be—wrong. You say—it's—a—" he paused for an exhausting coughing fit, "—demon. It's—lie. You've—always—hated me."

"Joe, I love you more than anything. They've corrupted your mind. But we're together again. We can beat them."

Joe looked confused. 'We—can?"

Tears filled Frank's eyes. "Joe, we're stronger than all of this. Remember—" he cast a meaningful look at Hope, who smiled at his next sentence, "'But the needy will not always be forgotten, nor the hope of the afflicted ever perish.'"

Joe smiled slightly. "Psalm—nine—eighteen."

"You can do this," Hope whispered. "You have to beat him at his own game."

"NO!"

He was no longer standing around, watching the scene with an amused expression. He was striding toward the brothers and girl. As he walked, he chanted, "' _Come, all you who are willing. Come if you hear me calling. Come to your doom, for I assure you, it is coming soon._

"The last part of the poem," Hope whispered.  _He_ grasped the girl's upper arm and shoved her toward Garret and Jared who held her fast. Frank sprang up to her aid and was punched in the nose, stomach, and temple in succession. He fell to the ground beside Joe, dazed and bleeding from his nose. It felt broken.

Joe tried to turn his head. "Frank—" he croaked. "You—okay?"

Frank opened his mouth to answer, and blood spilled into his mouth. He coughed and rolled to his side with difficulty, spitting out blood. "Yeah," he gasped.

 _He_ stood over the brothers. "The game is finally coming to an end. Again." It was almost as if he was talking to himself, for he didn't look them in the eye, but rather around the room. "I always win. They always think they can defeat me." He jerked a thumb at the restrained Hope. "She always thinks that hope can restore them. But she was wrong. She is always wrong.

"Before I win the game, I always tell the other players what exactly the game is about,"  _he_ said in a sinister voice. "And so, before you taste death and get what you so greatly deserve, I shall enlighten you. Then, I will kill you—slowly and painfully—so that you can each watch the other die." He shivered with excitement.

That was his favorite part of the game.


	18. The Climax

He was shaking. He always began to tremble when victory was in sight. He was about to win. He knew it. There was no way they could beat him now. He stared down at the two bloody teens lying at his feet. The oldest one was trying to put on a brave face to protect his younger brother. Scenes like this, which would both horrify and touch the hearts of most, amused him.

He felt the power surge through his body, making his muscles tingle. The power of winning. The power of justice. The power of giving the scum of the earth exactly what it deserved. Judgment.

Frank stared up at him, seeing nothing but a terrifying form in a black cloak. He hadn't begun to speak yet, to tell them the purpose of the game. He just stood there, shaking and quivering, like a dangerous machine on overload. Frank looked at his brother, whose blue eyes were squeezed tight in pain and from the strain of breathing.

"Joe," he said softly, half expecting him to burst out in a fit of rage and violence at his action. But he just stood there, trembling.

Joe's eyes opened a crack. "Frank…I…I…" he broke once more into a coughing fit, and then went on painfully, "…love you. I'm…sorry—" he couldn't go on. It hurt too much.

"Sorry for what little brother?" Frank croaked. "Listen, despite what lies he has fed you, I love you, and nothing—nothing," he repeated forcefully for emphasis, "—will ever change that." He reached over and felt for his brother's hand, coated in sticky blood.

Tears were running down Joe's face. "I don't want to die, Frank," he whispered. Each word was pain-laced and labored. "Not here. Not now. And I…don't want…you to…die…" He tried to take a deep breath to control his sobs, but was hampered by a coughing fit. He began to heave up blood as Frank watched, horrified and helpless. Unable to roll over, Joe began to choke. "I can't breathe Frank," he gurgled, panicking.

He just stood there, watching the scene with apparent indifference, laughing. It made Frank sick. "Help him!" he screamed harshly, tears clouding his vision. "He's drowning in his own blood!"

He stopped laughing. Glared down at the helpless boy, slowly choking on his own blood. He began to shake even more. This was beautiful. This was what the game was all about.

He frowned. But he hadn't explained what the game was about. They didn't deserve to know why they had to die; nonetheless, he was a merciful man. He would tell them before they got what they really deserved.


	19. Cat and Mouse

The brothers lay on the floor, side by side, bleeding and about to give up hope. The little girl was held fast between Garret and Jared, and those silver eyes were beginning to dull into a dim gray. Frank glanced at her, and was surprised to see a lone tear sliding down her face. What was happening to this girl; this strength, this little flower that had done her very best to save himself and his little brother? This rock, so tough and ready to face anything head on, was melting down into a desperate pool of tears, and now Frank could feel even the tiniest sliver of hope slip through his fingers and out of his grasp. He couldn't help but wonder,  _Why are you doing this to us? Why did you abandon us, Hope?_

At that moment, their eyes locked, and Frank knew that somehow, someway, she had heard his thoughts, or perhaps could tell what he was thinking by looking in his eyes. Either way, her own surreal eyes sent him a message that was perfectly clear.  _I didn't abandon you. You abandoned me._

And he knew it was true. They had given up on hope, and in doing so, they had given up on Hope. Suddenly, he was looking at this little girl with a new fascination; in a new light. She wasn't a normal child; he had known that from the very beginning, but she wasn't just that-she was supernatural. An angel, Heaven's Host, hope in human form. She had come to save them from the fate that had taken so many others because they had given up hope so early. And they were no better.

The killer was walking toward them now, slowly, grinning his maniacal grin. "Before you die, you shall know  _why_ your end has come upon you." He scoffed, then added. "It all has to do with your hearts. Your ugly, horrible, demented hearts."

Joe let out a strangled groan and Frank knew without a doubt that his heart wouldn't last much longer if they didn't get medical help soon. As a matter of fact, Frank's was beating so hard against his rib cage, he was beginning to think the same about himself. He stole another glance at Hope, but in this light, perhaps the prospect of death staring him so vividly in the face, she was different. Her eyes were glowing, and her skin was shimmering in the dismal and dark room. He looked at her, and saw hope in its true form. Suddenly, he knew that it wasn't too late. They could still win this thing. Joe moaned and looked in her direction. His eyes widened. So he saw it too. However, Betty, Garret, Jared, or the killer didn't seem to see the change in this angelic creature.

The killer continued. "You know, deep down, that you are no better than me. No! You are worse; you are the vilest form of life on this earth. I am in complete control of you and your fate, and that makes me god. And it is god's job to deliver judgment to those who deserve it. And you most definitely deserve it."

Frank was startled as his brother started to speak, his voice still cracking, gasping for breath, but he seemed to be a bit stronger. More hopeful. Confident. "What have we done that is so horrible we deserved all of this?"

The killer laughed, a high-pitched laugh of a mentally disturbed psycho. "You have done everything! Anything! You have killed! Raped!"

"And what makes you say that?" Joe asked. This time, there were no raspy gasps of breath. Just confidence.

"Every time you look at another woman in interest, you have molested her! When you hate, you kill! Every time you think a thought, it is purely from your heart!" He took a deep breath lathered in pleasure and adrenaline, anticipating the killing that he always looked so forward to. "Everything you saw here is true; this game is a reflection of the evil embedded in your own hearts and souls, and that is why you deserve to die!"

"No," Joe said said simply. His eyes were still on Hope, and to Frank's immense surprise, his younger brother stood to his feet-obviously in pain, but ready to face this vile killer anyway.

"No? Are you refusing to die, you miserable Sinner?" He chuckled. "I don't believe that you have much control over the situation."

"Do I not?" Joe asked. Frank looked up at him, and suddenly, it seemed like his brother was shining too; his blue eyes flashed even brighter with a supernatural fire, and he said, "You can do nothing to me. We may be sinners, but so is the rest of the world. And let's think for a moment-you hate evil and want to snuff it out by destroying human life. You think you are a god. But who gave you that position?"

"I was  _born_  with that position!" the killer snarled.

Frank began to fill with the same hope and confidence that his brother was displaying. Slowly, he rose to his feet and put his arm around Joe's shoulders. "That's what you have convinced yourself. But if you actually think about it, you were born for a greater evil. Destruction, in the end. You want to snuff out evil? The only true evil I see here is you."

Joe smiled at his brother, and Frank returned it with his own grin. Joe said. "You can't take us! If you want to destroy evil, you have to look inside yourself!"

The killer's eyes widened. Joe knew he had hit home. Finally, the killer understood. He was just thinking about when a good time to jump this guy was, but then he did something completely unexpected. He pulled a gun from his robe and pulled the trigger. The bullet thudded into little Hope's heart, and she slumped to the ground with a low moan. Frank and Joe screamed in protest, but the killer moved the gun again.

However, instead of pointing it at the boys, he took it to his own head and pulled the trigger.

The killer fell to a lump on the ground.

He was dead, gone forever by the force of his own weapon, but he had taken Hope with him. Betty, Garret, and Jared had disappeared, but at the moment, Frank and Joe didn't care in the least what had become of them. They fell to their knees next to the child that had saved them, blood covering her white dress, tears falling from their faces.

Then they turned away in grief. When they felt a tap on their shoulder, they spun around. There was little Hope, her dress spotless and skin glowing. Her eyes had turned a deep green, and her smile was beautiful.

"You did it-you conquered evil with his own game! You restored hope and set me free!" She stood on her tiptoes and gave each boy a tender kiss on the cheek, and Joe stammered, "Are-are you and angel or something like that?"

She grinned. "Something like that." She winked at him and added, "By the way, Iola says hi. She can't wait to see you again on the other side." Frank and Joe stared at each other, wide eyed. But when they turned to thank her, she was gone.

Hope was gone physically, but they knew that as long as there were good people on the earth, hope and love would always prevail.

Smiling, Frank put an arm around Joe's shoulder. "Let's go home, little brother."

Joe nodded his agreement. "Yes, Siree, there's no place like home after a rousing game of Cat and Mouse!"

**THE END**


End file.
